


Past the Post

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - UK 21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dave, Dave." Nick pulls his hand away and grins. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Haven't you learned yet? <i>Everything</i> is a negotiation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past the Post

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Explicit sex. No. Really. We mean explicit.  
> **Disclaimer:** Oh, hell no this didn't happen. These people have a country to run and we don't.  
> 

It's been three days now, but David still isn't used to his temporary office with its broad mahogany desk and heavy velvet drapes. He twists back and forth in the high-backed leather chair, testing out the bearings. Unlike his chair in Portcullis House, this one doesn't even squeak. No more complaining to Edward, he supposes. He hasn't had the balls to use the Study yet, the room Maggie Thatcher had made her own during her tenure at 10 Downing Street. He'd idolised the Iron Lady; he still does, and it seems a bit presumptious to take over her spaces entirely. George, of course, has already mocked him for being an utter pansy.

The polished surface of the desk is spotless—save for his open laptop and the neatly folded copy of the _Telegraph_ that was brought to him first thing this morning along with a steaming pot of Assam. David hadn't even known any staff would be up at this hour. For Christ's sake, George hasn't even arrived. It's fuck-o'clock in the morning, and dark sky is just fading into rosy clouds over the park. He's already done three miles on the treadmill, missing his daily bike ride intensely and wishing they'd let him run outside. He has at least half an hour of quiet before he needs to nip up and get ready for the day—Osborne won't be in until half-six at the earliest.

He jumps when the side door slams open, banging against the panelled wall. For a moment he panics, wondering if anyone's managed to get past the security detail, before he recognises the slickly groomed gingery head of his deputy. "Nick. I didn't realise you were in yet. Can't sleep either?"

Nick leans over the desk and closes David's laptop with one long finger. "It's the bloody _Economist_ at it now," he says through gritted teeth as he drops into the tufted leather chair across from David.

Nick's in his usual attire—ill-fitting suit, green tie, crisp white shirt—David notes. David's still in his sweaty jogging kit and not quite ready to face his rival—Deputy—this early in the morning without the protective armour of bespoke wool suiting.

"What do you mean?" David sits up, takes a moment to scan Nick's face which is pale with anger. In the years he's been in Parliament, David's learned to read his rivals well. It's a skill that's stood him in good stead during more than one fractious debate. He keeps his voice light. "What've they done? Put a dead bird of freedom on the cover?"

Nick glares at him. "Not amusing, you Tory twat. It's worse."

David leans back in his chair and allows himself a small grin. "Apologies, Deputy Twat. What is it then?" He steeples his fingertips in what he hopes is a magisterial gesture.

It's wasted on Nick, who isn't even looking, much to David's annoyance. Instead he stares out the lightening window, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. He breathes out an irritated huff.

"Don't tell me!" David forges on. "A bird in a _tree_!" He chuckles, amusing himself.

That earns him another glare and a tight scowl. "Must you?"

"Come on." David glances over to his closed laptop, suddenly a bit ill at ease, then focuses himself back to the man in front of him. "It can't be that bad, can it? I mean, Gordon the Ghoul is gone and we're in Camelot now. Avalon maybe. Or would that be Camelon. Or Avelot. Whatever the _Mail_'s calling us now. Anyway. Here we are. So why the long face?"

"Oh, I don't know." Nick runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. It's a sign of his distraction that he doesn't seem to mind. "Perhaps the fact that one of the preeminent magazines of our time has decided to illustrate an article about the Coalition by putting you and me on top of a ruddy wedding cake, for starters?" There's a more than British brusqueness to his tone that David knows from experience is an indicator that he's close to fury.

David pauses thoughtfully. "Really? That's a new one. But...I mean." He stops. "It's not bad attention, you know. It helps cover our arses while we're getting this whole carnival sorted."

"You cannot be serious." Nick's full attention snaps to David. It's more than a little unnerving.

David considers making another joke, but thinks better of it. The gloves aren't off yet, and there's more than enough dealmaking left to do. Reassessing quickly, he takes a sympathetic tack. "It's upset you, hasn't it?"

Nick barely blinks. His nostrils flare slightly. "It hasn't you? Really, I think this whole civil partnership analogy has gone a bit too far. They'll be sending us wedding presents shortly."

"Should we set up a list at General Trading Company then?" David leans back in his chair, interlacing his hands behind his head. At Nick's tightened mouth, he sighs. "Look. It's just like school—we're the new boys, they'll knock us about a bit, we ignore them and then kick them later when they've forgotten."

Nick sighs and slumps back in his seat, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "I always hated fagging." He rubs the smooth leather arm moodily.

David grins and rocks in his chair, still missing the squeak. "Come on. We're leading, not fagging. We've made it through a whole fucking election. Don't worry about the press. They'll settle down. At least they're not drawing us as Nazis." He pauses. "On a wedding cake."

"Fuck off." Nick pushes himself out of the chair, turning to the door that will take him back to the Cabinet Office.

David stands as well. "Wait."

Nick stops and looks back over his shoulder. "What?"

"Was there something you...was that it?" They've a lot of meetings together today. David doesn't want to start off wrong-footed.

There's a long pause as they regard each other. Finally Nick purses his lips. His hair's still mussed. "I'm not your trophy wife, Cameron."

A mask comes over David's features. Yet again he's extended an olive branch to Nick only to be smacked in the face with it. It's becoming rather tiresome. "Just as well I'm a Liberal Conservative. We don't do trophy wives."

Nick turns back towards him, his jacket ruching up as he shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. "Don't you," he says softly. There's a sharp look in his eyes that unsettles David. The country underestimates Nicholas William Peter Clegg, he thinks. There's little more ruthless than a man utterly convinced of his own rectitude.

"No. We don't." David stops, then pitches his voice for emphasis. "Was there something _professional_ you wanted?"

For the briefest moment Nick narrows his eyes, then he takes a small step towards David. "No."

David's heart is pounding. He really shouldn't have said that, not with Nick in a strop; he's not sure how far he can go, and they can't afford to have it out. Yet.

Nick moves closer, stopping at the chair he'd just left, one hand resting on the back. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

The question catches David off guard, and he resists the urge to shuffle sideways while avoiding it. "I don't believe I was the one..." His voice trails off. He takes a step backwards; his chair rolls off the edge of the rug. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?" Nick's voice is soft, even. His eyes don't leave David's face.

David looks away first, searching for escape. His heart refuses to stop pounding in his chest, although there's nothing obviously wrong. "I'm not certain." And he isn't, he really isn't all of a sudden.

Nick's lips curve in a smile with no warmth. "Good."

"Right." David grasps for control over the conversation. "Then..." He pauses, trying to give Nick a cue to leave with his raised eyebrows, gesturing with his chin towards the side door when this doesn't seem to work.

Nick doesn't take the hint. Quite the opposite, in fact. He moves further into David's space, crowding him to sit on the corner of David's desk, his arms crossed. He studies David silently.

At first David wonders whether to sit or stand, but he remains standing, refusing to give Nick higher ground. His hands nervously tug at the hem of his fleece gilet until Nick glances at them pointedly. For a moment David contemplates walking out of the door himself. He squares his shoulders, hands still. "What _are_ we–you—talking about?"

"And here I'd hoped you found it memorable," Nick murmurs, stroking a long hand across the fine wool of his black trousers.

_Really, this is getting preposterous,_ David thinks. He fights a rising swell of impatience. "Nick. Perhaps this would be easier if we were having the same conversation."

"Perhaps," Nick says. His lower lip juts ever so slightly. He looks like a petulant child.

Slowly David begins to realise what this has to be about. "Are you referring to…during the negotiations…" He stutters to a stop, unwilling to voice what had transpired. He thinks for a moment about the security cameras that must be capturing everything.

"When you wanked me in the loo?" Nick flicks a speck of lint off his sleeve. "Perhaps."

"I…we..." David shivers, following the movement of Nick's fingers with his eyes; he briefly sympathises with the lint. "When we...yes. Each other, really." He gives Nick a hesitant grin, then hates himself for it immediately. He rubs the back of his neck nervously.

Nick doesn't smile. "Of course, you see the issue."

"No," David almost shouts. In lower, more settled tones he continues, "No. I don't."

"That thick, are you?"

With a sigh, David closes his eyes. "If we're going to resort to name calling, we should just..."

Nick's fingers brush his jaw. "What?" he asks quietly.

David startles at Nick's touch. His eyes open wide. Nick's so close David can see the pale freckles sprinkled across his cheekbones and the golden flecks in his eyes. David's mouth hangs open, refusing to obey him. "I..."

And he doesn't know what else to say.

"You know Osborne's been talking." Nick's thumb strokes across David's stubbled cheek. "You need a shave."

David's brain follows Nick's words, while his body reacts his touch. "Yeah. He can be a right shit when he wants to. Hague's been keeping him in line."

"He watches you." Nick slides two fingertips to David's collarbone, stroking lightly across his skin. "The entirety of our Cabinet meeting he was watching. I found it rather..." He hesitates and looks away. "Annoying."

David takes in the information, but finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate as Nick's fingers move across his throat. He lets his chin sink a little, looking down at the thick carpet. "Did you?"

Nick's hand rests on David's shoulder. "There's only so much I'm willing to share."

David's head snaps up in surprise. "What are you—he's in my party. We've worked together for years. And you're only—"

"Your deputy." Nick cuts him off. His fingers curl into the thick fabric at David's shoulder.

Any protest dies on David's lips. The look on Nick's face is raw, almost predatory, and David wonders for a fleeting moment if this is really has anything to do with him or whether it's just about power.

"Have you fucked him?" Nick asks, his voice low.

David jerks away, pulling out of Nick's grasp. "Of course not. Don't be daft." He smoothes the spot where Nick's fingers were as if he could smooth everything away.

Nick lets his hand fall. "He wants to though."

"He bloody well does not." David turns and fiddles with the half-empty Wedgewood cup on his desk.

Nick snorts behind him. "He'd spread his legs for you in a fucking heartbeat."

David looks back, truly shocked. "Don't be vulgar." He tries not to think about the photo of George in stockings and suspenders from uni. It'd taken all of Andy's considerable blackmailing talents to keep the press from salivating over that one. Fucking McBride.

A curious look crosses Nick's face. "But you'd rather have your arse in the air, wouldn't you?"

The teacup shakes in David's hand, splashing tepid Assam over his fingers. "I hardly think--"

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Ah. I wonder what Osborne would say if he knew."

David sets the cup down and faces Nick deliberately. "This conversation is over." He leans over and reaches for the phone.

Nick is a split second behind him: he takes the receiver from him and sets it back in its cradle. "Oh, I think not, Prime Minister."

"Do you really want to get into a power struggle this early?" David tries to suppress the thrill that shoots through him.

Nick laughs then, a sharp, short bark of amusement. "If you want."

And there's the rub. David does want, of course, has wanted many things since that first, oddly timed and exhilarating encounter, since the rush of groping his rival and _coalition partner_, for God's sake. He wants to fight and to fuck and that's been driving at the soft parts of his brain like a pneumatic drill.

The frisson when Nick calls him _Prime Minister_ doesn't help either.

David takes a deep breath. "What are you getting out of this? Is this just some sort of joke, to wave your prick in my face and show you've got control too? "

"Oh, I haven't done that yet," Nick quickly shoots back. "I'm saving that for our second week in power."

"Are you mad?" David gives him an incredulous look. "Do you really think either of us can afford to be so rash as to give any substance to the press's announcement of our "civil partnership"? I mean, look what they've done unaided. You can't possibly think..." He trails off and waits, not hoping, not thinking, just knowing that this has the whiff of utter disaster.

Nick's silent for a moment. "I don't know what I think," he says finally. "Except that I haven't been able to get the thought of your hand on my cock out of my mind for days now."

To his great horror David finds himself nodding in agreement with nothing to say.

Nick doesn't move.

"You know we're fucked if William hears anything," David says finally, looking up at Nick completely unguardedly. "He took me aside before he left."

"Why?"

David can't believe Nick hasn't twigged. "I suppose we weren't that discreet. It's fine for a metaphor he said, but if it went any further…"

"Yes," Nick asked testily, "what then?"

"He didn't say."

Nick's fingers brush David's bare forearm, tracing the edge of his pushed up sleeve.

"And George will talk, you're right on that," David says, pretending to ignore the press of Nick's hand against his skin. "I don't think it's me he wants exactly, but he is a fierce gossip." It's hopeless. There's really no way. He doesn't even know why he's still standing here, like this, except that he'd rather die than move.

"Do you care?" Nick asks quietly.

"No—yes." David says, meeting Nick's eyes and realizing while he's really at the top and there's no higher to go, he made a devil's bargain to get here and it's standing right in front of him. "Somebody has to."

Nick's fingers curl around David's wrist, firm and heavy. "They already think we're fucking."

"Oh." David's genuinely surprised. "They're not supposed to think _that._ Ever."

"Have you not read the _Guardian_ lately?" Nick pulls him closer.

David snorts. "No. Not if I can help it. I make Gove do it." Nick's palm is warm, and David doesn't fight his grip.

"Look up John Crace's column," Nick says with a wry smile. His hand slips down to settle on David's hip.

"You could always tell me yourself," David says, looking into Nick's eyes. He leans away, but Nick moves in closer. David squirms, sweaty and not at all properly dressed, nor ready to have him so close.

Nick's laugh is warm against David's throat. "There may have been something about how attractive you think I am."

David can't lean back any further. His lips almost brush Nick's hairline when he asks, "Wherever did he get that idea from?"

"I _am_ rather fit." Nick juts his hip forward, pressing David against the desk. The edge of the desk bites into the back of David's thigh, the hard ridge of Nick's erection rubbing into him from the front. His own running shorts aren't hiding a thing, he's painfully aware.

David doesn't let himself think. Much. About the unlocked door or his own shabby state of attire or the staff coming in fifteen, twenty minutes from now with cappuccinos. "And so humble," he murmurs, resting his hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Quite." Nick presses his mouth to David's jaw, biting lightly.

The gasp that escapes David's lips shames him, which he enjoys thoroughly. He begins to want someone to walk in, though his political reptilian brain is screaming "_No!_"

Nick chuckles against David's skin. "Like that, do we?" Nick doesn't wait for an answer but kisses him then, his mouth warm and wet and soft.

David mouths against the firm pressure of Nick's lips, oddly relieved to have him taking control. It's nothing coordinated or smooth—Nick's knee nudges awkwardly, almost painfully between David's thighs and David flinches, their teeth bump—but it has the advantage of completely shutting down his brain until his thoughts are nothing more than _feel_, and _want_, and _now_. The slow burn of how much he hates Nick Clegg will not abate, but at the moment it's just mixed with the desire to have his hands everywhere.

Nick scrapes his teeth across David's bottom lip as he pulls back, breathless. "Christ," he murmurs, and then he leans in and captures David's mouth again.

David holds on to Nick's shoulder, flinging his left arm behind him to keep from toppling onto the desk. Even here, even now, the jostling for position is difficult and they can't seem to establish a rhythm or an angle they can both agree on. It's rocky and uncomfortable and he wants so much more than the haphazard friction of their hips together.

"Fuck," Nick gasps and he pulls at the thin black fleece of David's gilet, pushing the fabric aside without unzipping it further.

"Careful, or you'll hear from my tailor," David says cheekily. He rocks forward for balance while shrugging out of the offending article of clothing, nearly draping himself across Nick, who doesn't seem to mind. The brief shiver as the air hits his sodden t-shirt is offset by the warmth that emanates from his deputy.

Nick unbuttons his jacket and lets it fall to the floor. As Nick tugs his tie loose, David glances at it. "Green. Really?"

"More yellow than blue." Nick tosses it aside.

"Wishful thinking, Clegg. We've 307—"

Nick kisses David again, quick and hard with more tongue. "Thirsk isn't yours yet. If you think—"

David bites back more than kisses. "I'm not thinking."

Nick presses against him, long and lean in his white shirt. "Rather like the debates then."

"I don't—" David unbuttons the button at Nick's collar, then the next. "—agree."

"Gordon did."

David stops dead, almost pushes Nick away. "You didn't...?" He suppresses an urge to shudder.

Nick blinks in confusion. "I didn't..." His eyes widen. "Have you lost your mind? I'm not a complete slag."

"I never implied you were." They stare at each other for a moment. David frowns. "Except just then, obviously."

"You," Nick says, "are a complete cunt sometimes."

"Sorry," David says automatically. He isn't at all. In fact, he enjoys the flush of anger across Nick's cheekbones even more than usual.

Nick unbuttons his shirt clinically, unfastening his cufflinks and pulling the tails out of his trousers before laying it on the back of David's chair with his jacket. "That shouldn't turn me on the way it does."

"Well, then. Lucky me." David means to sound sarcastic. Not breathless.

Nick leans forward to cup David's cock through his shorts. "Lucky. Yes."

David thrusts into Nick's hand, what little resistance he has left completely crumbled. "God. Please." He moans and hates himself for it.

"Please _what,_ Prime Minister?" Nick's hand slows.

"Fuck. Please. Just…" David gasps and rocks his hips forward as Nick's hand strokes him, hard. His pants catch on the swelling head of his cock, sliding across his foreskin.

Nick stops, his hand tugging the white cotton drawcord of David's running shorts. David opens his eyes. Nick seems to be waiting for something.

"What?"

Nick gives David's cock a quick squeeze. "You have to ask for what you want, Dave," he says, and the sodding bastard nearly _purrs._

With a sharp hiss, David puts his hand over Nick's hand, squeezing it around his hard length and pushing into their combined grip. "This. Isn't. A. Fucking. Negotiation." Flecks of his spittle hit Nick's cheek.

"Dave, Dave." Nick pulls his hand away and grins. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Haven't you learned yet? _Everything_ is a negotiation."

He stands back and David almost curses in frustration. Nick crosses his arms over his bare chest, holding David's gaze. David stares back, determined not to look away first. "Shorts down," Nick says, gesturing with that chiseled chin of his.

When David protests wordlessly, fists balling, Nick just grins slowly and waits. David pulls them down, feeling the slippery black nylon pool around his ankles.

"Pants, too."

David closes his eyes again, smiling at the sharp intake of breath from Nick when he hooks his fingers in the elasticated waistband of his soft knit boxers and pulls. The fabric grazes his knees on the way down. His cock hangs heavy in the air between them, painfully, embarrassingly hard. David opens his eyes. Nick is staring at his face.

"Good," Nick says quietly. "Now turn around."

David searches Nick's face for some glimmer of a clue, but Nick's gaze is steely. There's a reason he's considered an excellent negotiator; he makes you want to give him things, _anything_ to get his approval.

Fucking Tab.

Turning around slowly, he hears the rustle of Nick's trousers and senses the warmth of his body behind him. Wool brushes the backs of his thighs as Nick reaches around David's hip and grasps his prick in a long, hard, brilliant pull. "Good boy," he whispers in David's ear and David shudders, pushing desperately into Nick's grip, resenting the cocky bastard every fucking inch of his self-satisfied tone and determined to get his own back. Soon. But not now. Now he just wants to come.

They stand like that for a few heady minutes, Nick rubbing his wool-clad erection into the crack of David's arse, his hand expertly—and really, David wonders what the hell Nick's been doing in the Cowley Street backrooms to get _this_ adept—bringing David closer and closer to the brink of desperation. David rocks back against him, then thrusts forward.

And then Nick stops. David falls forward, braced on his palms. Nick leans over to the side drawer, his left hand still holding David's prick, and opens it. He rummages around one-handedly and pulls out a tube of lotion.

"Crème de la Mer." Nick whistles and David's cheeks flush. "Posh. I knew your hands were too soft."

Nick's hands aren't at all soft. They're warm and dry and hard, and David likes the rough way they slide across his cock. "What are you doing?"

"Unless you have a condom in that big, impressive desk of yours, I'm putting my fingers up your arse."

And that is Nick fucking Clegg, right there. He just comes out and says exactly what he wants, and it's up to us, David thinks, the rest of the whole damned world to accommodate him. He halfway admires this attitude that the world is Nick's bitch, and he absolutely hates him for being able to give it free reign, for not having to bend over backward as David does to prove that he's not a toff—not too much at least and please call me Dave—that he's not just part of the ruling class, that he's compassionate, for fuck's sake, and has a common touch, whatever the hell that is. And Nick just waltzes in and takes what he wants and no one, _no one_ asks whether he's perhaps a bit too lordly and full of himself. Fucking wanker.

"Uh," is all he says. (Definitely not, "And what makes you think I'd want your cock up my arse?")

"Any objections, Prime Minister?"

David hears the wet sound of his £60 hand treatment squirt into Nick's hand. He's definitely not thinking about the fact that it's meant for hands, not arses and, oh God, does Nick really mean to...

The answer is yes. Slick, firm fingers slide between his arse cheeks. "Spread your legs," Nick murmurs.

David complies. And then he's on his hands as Nick's fingers pet his arsehole and all he can think is fuck. Hague. Fuck.

Oh, God.

Nick's fingertip breaches his body, slides inside him, strange and not really comfortable. He hasn't done this since school, hasn't had _anything_ near his arse outside of a doctor's exam, much less graceful fingers like Nick's—he hisses at one quick, nearly painful twist. _Fuck._

David shifts, biting his lip and wondering why he let it get this far, why he didn't just throw him out. Next time, he stays in the hall, David thinks grimly, not really enjoying the almost unfamiliar sensations and the weird sense that he could be _destroyed_ if anyone finds out, not to mention how much Nick must be getting off on having him here. Like this.

"You'll like this better if you wank yourself a bit," Nick suggests. David reminds himself to have Andy figure out just how many men are hidden behind those "30 or fewer" women Nick declared publicly, just in case they have to use that—_fuck_—against him. Oh _fuck_. Still, he complies as much as it annoys him to do what Nick suggests, curling his left hand around his prick and stroking lightly with each slow press of Nick's finger and it _is_ so much better, he almost sings with pleasure.

Nick's very, very good and very, very sure of himself. As David relaxes under Nick's touch, he feels the burn of a second finger. When he gasps, Nick stops, then slowly starts again, careful, not asking, taking slowly. Nick fingers his arse open as though it was exactly what David wanted and David finds himself begging for it, pleading as a third finger slides slowly inside him with a strangled _oh fuck—God—please..._

And then Nick's hand is over his on his cock and Nick's fingers are pounding his arse and David's full weight is braced on the heel of one hand. He shudders with the impact, opening his body in ways that he really hadn't ever planned on doing, not since furtive fifth form explorations at least. This really doesn't fit into the family values side of the policy, and Steve will garrotte him if he ever finds out. Although he'll have to fight dozens of others for the privilege.

It doesn't matter. This feels too damned good. David hisses with one quick, rough twist of Nick's fingers and he rocks up onto the balls of his feet, his trainers digging into the thick rug. He gasps, short and sharp, and, Christ, he'd never known you could be fucked like this, with nearly a whole fucking hand this deep inside of you. His hand tightens on his prick, jerking harder, Nick's fingers heavy over his, and his body trembles as he cants his hips wider, wanting more.

Nick doesn't disappoint. He pulls his hand away from David's cock, resting it on the desktop for more leverage. His wet thumb leaves a mark on the wood. David can smell himself on Nick's fingers, musky and warm, and it makes him tug harder, sliding his foreskin back as far as he can over the swollen head of his prick as Nick's fingers sink further inside him.

"You like this." When David doesn't answer, Nick ruches David's t-shirt up, smoothing one hand over David's spine as he leans over him. His bare chest is hot and damp against David's back, and David shudders when Nick presses closer, pushing him against the desk. David collapses onto his right arm, his cheek touching the smooth wood of the desk and his breath clouding the polish. Nick's pebbled nipples brush against David's skin, and he presses his mouth, wet and open, against David's nape, kissing across his hairline and raising gooseflesh on the skin of David's neck. David shivers as Nick's fingers twist deeper into his arse.

"Imagine," Nick whispers against David's ear, "imagine what they'd say if they could see you now, this open, this desperate to be fucked?"

David's mind numbs at the words. His body sinks into Nick's grip, surrendering fully to the control that he has given Nick. The burning sensation of Nick's hand inside him mixes with waves of pleasure as their two hands move faster and faster over his cock. David doesn't even realise he's this close to coming until Nick strikes something absolutely explosive inside of him and he shouts out loud on a perfectly timed thrust and squeeze, his balls constricting painfully and his aching arse spasming around Nick's fingers in an orgasm akin to a volcanic eruption—God knows what the ash clouds from this will do, he thinks distantly as his body shudders. It certainly shut down all nerve transmissions north of his hips.

David becomes aware of his breath first, returning to his body in a rough rasp. His wrist is cramped beneath their combined weight, his arse uncomfortably open. Nick's fingers move again, and David closes his eyes with a soft groan, beginning to realise what he's just done, where he is, where Nick's fucking _hand_ is for god's sake.

He shifts and Nick stills him with a quiet _hush_. " Wait a moment." Nick rests one palm on the small of David's back, pressing him against the desk as he slides his fingers slowly loose of David's body, knuckle by knuckle, each digit leaving him wetly. David pants, nervous shivers skittering across his heated skin.

Nick wipes his slick hand on David's shirt and David scrabbles numbly for tissues to wipe away the spunk smeared across his prick and his desk, face flushed beet red and chest absolutely heaving with breath. When he turns, Nick has finished buttoning his shirt and has casually draped his jacket over his arm. As he's reaching for his tie, David says, "No."

"What?" Nick frowns at him, straightening up.

"Not like this. No," David repeats. "Sit down."

Nick begins to protest, but David nearly forces him into the broad leather seat, his hands already at Nick's trouser buttons, clumsily at first. Nick wears his trousers baggy, and as much as he loathes to admit it, David has noticed why before today: the twat's cock is bloody enormous. David has always been a bit sensitive about the fact that his own is normal verging on small for his size, but Nick's is...not quite porn star material, but nearer to than David is comfortable admitting. Bastard. Five languages _and_ something like eight inches. On an atheist. Christ. God truly does have a sense of humour. Or schadenfreude.

Silently Nick watches as David grasps his prick through the thin white cotton of his smalls (Marks and Sparks, of course, like a good little Lib Dem) and then works the fabric down to bare the thick column of his erection.

David almost rethinks what he intends to do when he's on his knees, suddenly face to face with the musky, intimidating length of flesh jutting from the crumpled folds of Nick's black trousers, but he didn't reach Tory leadership without a stiff, so to speak, core of determination. He's not going to let Nick get the best of him here. Squaring his shoulders, he gives Nick a defiant glare, fisting the thick base of Nick's cock as he leans down to mouth at the swollen, leaking head.

Before his lips touch, Nick's hand brushes his cheek. "Are you certain about this?"

David glances up. Certain? No. But then he hasn't much of a choice either. Nick's made damn sure of that. The bastard will probably destroy him with this and then they'll be on equal footing. Then again, if he's very lucky—or very, very good—David might just keep the upper hand the voters dealt him. He knows which he'd prefer.

"Shut up," David says, perhaps a little too sharply, and Nick's mouth quirks just enough to be irritating. David lets go of his cock to pull at Nick's collar, yanking him down to kiss him, as roughly as he can, teeth scraping across Nick's bottom lip. He pushes into it, the ball of his right hand pressing hard into Nick's firm thigh. When he pulls away, Nick's breathless, his mouth wet and pink. "Unless you'd rather I didn't suck you dry."

"Fuck," Nick says, reaching for David again, but David knocks his hand away. He drops away, nudging Nick's knees aside.

His arse smarts as he leans across Nick's lap, his hands sliding up to grip Nick's hips, and it's almost as if he can still feel Nick inside of him. His cheek grazes Nick's prick. Nick's quick, quiet gasp sends a shiver down his spine, and he tries to remember everything he learned in school about blowjobs. Mouth, tongue, teeth—careful. He stretches his lips over the head of Nick's cock and Nick shudders, threading his hand through David's hair. David panics at the gentle touch, but he doesn't pull away. He drags his tongue across Nick's hot skin, over his slick, smooth slit. Nick tastes unpleasant—salty and odd, like something that's just gone off, with a weirdly chlorine smell. David's lips don't seem to be meant to do this—they're dry and stretched and his jaw is already aching. He gags himself at least twice just trying to shift to keep his neck from getting stiff.

But that doesn't really seem to matter to Nick. Nick is making little huffing sounds, one hand sliding over the arm of David's chair, his bitten-down fingernails digging into the leather, the other twisting in David's hair, and David is half-afraid Nick's hips are going to come forward at any moment. Slowly he figures out how to set up a rhythm with his hand and his tongue and his mouth. Nick groans in acknowledgment, shifting in the chair. His legs spread wider and David can't stop himself from sliding closer, pressing himself against Nick's thighs. The rug rubs against his bare knees; he's too damned old for this, he thinks, but he doesn't seem to care once Nick keens softly at a particularly adept flick of David's tongue beneath his foreskin.

Steady, rhythmic, that's what he likes and that's what Nick must like, no matter how orthopaedically uncomfortable it is. Breathing is also challenging—he's trying not to gasp, but breathing through his nose is almost impossible and crisp, wet hair keeps getting in his mouth as he licks down Nick's shaft, burrowing his face against his warm, tight balls, and he feels like he's close to choking.

Once he can focus, he looks up, and Nick's green eyes are glazed, looking at David bobbing in his lap. "God, you look good like this," Nick says, stroking David's hollowing cheek. "I've never had the Prime Minister suck my cock before."

David wants to snort, but instead he closes his eyes and keeps sucking, rolling his tongue around the hard flesh, tasting salt and precome and the potential for victory.

Nick's coming unglued, hooking one skinny leg over the chair arm and moaning, pushing his hips up off the seat now, pressing harder on the back of David's neck. "Harder," he chokes out. "Come _on_, you sodding twat—put that fucking silver tongue of yours to use–" When David sucks at Nick's wet slit, pressing the tip of his tongue against it, Nick's shoulders arch against the back of the chair, his hair catching on the tufted leather. "_Shit._"

David puts a hand to Nick's hips to keep him from fucking his mouth too quickly. He angles his head to the side to try and get more of Nick's cock in his mouth. Horrid idea. With one hard thrust and a sharp cry from Nick, David starts back, finds himself sitting on his haunches, coughing, his hand at his throat.

"Sorry." Nick touches David's hair, still breathing hard. His wet cock lies nearly flat against his bunched shirt. "Are you okay?"

David wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and swallows gingerly. His throat hurts. " I'm fine." His soft palate feels battered and sore, but he holds his breath and the unpleasant sensations stop.

"You don't have to," Nick says as David reaches for his prick. "I can—"

"I thought—" David looks up at him, his breath gusting lightly over Nick's damp skin. "—I told you—" He drags his tongue along the underside of Nick's cock and Nick hisses. "— to shut up."

Nick draws in a ragged breath and sinks back into the chair. He licks his lip, canting his hips up as David leans back down over him. He goes back to work and this time it's easier. Somehow he gets a better angle, Nick manages to keep himself under control, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair until they turn white. David bobs and swallows and licks and pulls, mentally going over Andy's notes about his upcoming Sarkozy visit to keep from thinking about how uncomfortable this is.

"Fuck," Nick whispers, and he's holding the base of his prick in one hand, his thumb stroking down over his balls. He's watching David with dark eyes, and it's like time stands still. David stops noticing anything but the laboured, shallow inhale of Nick's breathing, his own muffled gasps sounding as though they were made by someone else. He feels the softness of Nick's fingers against his cheek and how incredibly hard Nick's cock is. Even his mouth on Nick's prick starts to seem completely normal and he is captivated by how much Nick wants him to do this, his hands catching David's shoulders as he begs him to suck him. David's mouth slides wetly down Nick's erection, his fingers twist the black wool of Nick's trousers, and David knows how far he can go now, farther than he would have imagined, although he can't take more than a few inches of cock down his throat for fear of gagging.

Nick makes a little stuttering sound, a staccato _Dave_ barely audible, and his hips press up, thighs tight and tense. It's all the warning David gets as Nick's spunk splatters into his mouth and down his chin, dripping onto his favorite t- shirt, which is now totally ruined, and even onto the carpet. David pulls back with a cough and a swallow that he quickly regrets as the odd, bitter, mushroomy-metallic taste floods his mouth.

He's filled with the overwhelming need to get clean. But even as he's wishing for tissues and getting ready to rifle through his desk, he looks up at Nick's face and sees a different person—softer, unguarded, almost vulnerable. Just for a moment, for the briefest breath, David knows this was more than just a play for power. At least on his part. And then Nick's mask falls again and he knows it was just an illusion and they are who they are and nothing will change that.

David hates how lonely he feels.

And then Nick slides off the chair, his knees striking the carpet on either side of David's legs as the chair rolls back. It hits the wall with a soft thud. David draws away; the handles of his desk drawers bite into his back. "Don't," he says quietly.

His protests have never stopped Nick, not in the Commons and certainly not here. His deputy slides towards him, his hair rumpled and falling into his eyes. He smells like sex and sweat and David has no fucking idea how he's going to make it through Cabinet this morning with _that_ sitting across from him. "This changes everything," Nick murmurs and his mouth brushes David's.

"It doesn't." David's eyes flutter closed as Nick's lips slide down his jaw. He can't stop his hands from resting themselves on Nick's waist. The cotton of Nick's shirt is soft against his palms and he can feel the heat of Nick's body through it. "You're still a prick and I'm still a twat, remember?"

Nick laughs softly against David's temple. "Some people would say that's a good combination."

"Some people would be vulgar little children," David says primly. He hides a smile in Nick's hair as Nick nips his earlobe. He's all too aware how much trouble he's in. Fuck the Tory backbenchers; the most dangerous threat to his prime ministership is currently sucking a love bite into the willing curve of his throat.

He doesn't hear the purposeful stride of footsteps on the thick carpet until a pair of neatly turned ankles and leopard kitten heels appear at the corner of his desk.

"Shit," David says and Nick turns his head.

"Shit," Nick repeats, slowly looking up to the inevitable.

Theresa May looks down at them, her mouth pursed. She lets her gaze drift over them, grimly taking in Nick's déshabillé and David's bare legs, his shorts and pants still caught around one ankle. She drops a file folder on David's desk. "The door wasn't locked," she says mildly. David swears under his breath.

Nick presses himself against David, turning just enough to make sure he covers David's bare hips. David's cock shifts against his, catching in the folds of Nick's trousers. "You can leave now."

"Of course." Theresa turns, then looks back at them. "William's supposed to ring me this afternoon from Washington. David, perhaps you and I could have a bit of a chat before then? I think there might be a few—" She glances down at David's thighs, her brow furrowing. "—_issues_ you previously wished me to table that might rather be best put before the party now, don't you think? The question of the 1922 Committee, for instance?" Her smile is sharp, and David's heart sinks. Of all the people to find them, it'd have to be Theresa. He'd rather have had George come bursting in. The whole bloody Cabinet would have known by lunchtime, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about blackmail.

Particularly blackmail which is going to send half the backbench into mutiny.

Nick tenses. "Don't," David says quietly, urgently, and this time Nick, his mouth tight, just nods and stays silent. David looks at Theresa. "Half eleven then."

When she leaves, Nick relaxes. Slightly. "Not good, that."

"You _are_ the master of the understatement, Clegg." David pushes him off and staggers to his feet, his knees creaking as he stands and his bum _really_ starting to hurt. This is going to take paracetamol and a lot of pretending, he's quite aware, much less the public apologies for what he's going to have to feed Theresa. Tugging his pants and shorts back up in front of Nick's watchful eye, he feels like a fool. One who desperately needs a shower. He's sticky, sweaty and utterly disgusting. "I'll have to talk to William now, you realise. He's the only one who can keep her in line when she gets that particular gleam in her eye." He doesn't look at Nick. "She can't stand you, after all."

"So few of you can," Nick says with a smirk as he buttons his trousers, which are stained and how he is going to hide _that_ through a day's sitting David has no damned idea. "Except perhaps you personally." He drapes his tie around his neck. "It puzzles me, you know. Why you don't mind having me about."

"That's Top Secret," David says lightly. "Could cause grave damage to the government if it got out."

"I think MI5 might give me clearance." Nick picks up his jacket. "I've signed the Official Secrets Act and I'm also a part of this government."

David just sighs. "Go home, Nick. Get clean." He needs to be away from Nick now. Needs to clear his head before he does something else ridiculously stupid to destroy everything he's worked so fucking hard for.

Nick hesitates. "Dave."

"I said _go._" David reaches blindly for the folder Theresa had left. The Royal Coat of Arms is embossed on the cover. He stares down at it, willing Nick to leave.

Nick stops at the side door, hand on the doorknob. "I don't mind having you about either," he says, his voice soft. The door shuts with a soft snick behind him.

David sits in his chair, watching the clouds lighten through the tall panes of his window. He runs his hands over his face. Churchill never had this problem, he was certain. He catches sight of Nick's belt lying on the rug, half beneath his desk. He picks it up, his fingers stroking along the thin, supple leather. His mouth twitches as he imagines returning it during their Cabinet meeting this morning. It'd almost be worth it for the look on George's face.

He drops the belt onto his desk. It's going to be a long five years, he thinks. A long, _interesting_ five years. A challenge one might say, and David's never met a challenge he could walk away from.

Including Nick bloody Clegg.

David lets his head fall and prays for what mercy he can hope for.


End file.
